


Fallen

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-21
Updated: 2005-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-12 07:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7092607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why do you run when there's nothing to run to?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallen

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

There were days I really wished that Fred and Angel would have just let Jasmine take over the world. Who gives a flying fuck about free will when all it does is remind you of everything you've lost, and how you'll never be happy again? How the best you can hope for is numb.

Wes told us all about her, and Connor, and a million other things about his life in L.A. It's not like we had anything else to do. Mostly we ran and hid because we were trying not to be exterminated, and when we were hiding, we talked. We talked about everything. He talked about Fred and Illyria, Lilah and Cordy, and sometimes, when he was at his worst, he'd talk about Faith. He'd never admit it, but Oz and I understood that he still felt like he'd failed her. He tried not to talk about Angel. I was never quite sure if I was grateful or bothered by his consideration.

Oz told us about his trek all over the world. He described Tibet, the monks and the monasteries he visited while he was getting control of his inner wolf. He told us about Budapest and Tokyo and Venice and Cairo and the million other places he'd been to that I could barely remember what country they were in.

People who knew me way back when would be surprised that I barely talked at all. Mostly I just sat and listened, and felt cold. 

I talked a little bit, at first. I cried a lot, but I talked about Xander and how he'd flown to L.A. with me the second we heard about what was going on. I reminisced about Willow, but I was careful not to talk about her suffering in those last minutes. Oz hadn’t gotten to L.A. before Willow died, so I tried to spare him knowledge of what she went through.

I pretty much gave up when I hit on Angel, and just lost it. Wes held me while I bawled my eyes out about how I didn't want to be cookie dough anymore and Angel wouldn't wait for me. Neither one of them understood what I was talking about, but we were all going through a tough time emotionally. They just let me cry and babble until I was all cried and babbled out.

After that I just listened, which is funny, considering that I'm running for my life with two of the non-talkiest guys ever. If Xander had been there he'd have rambled nonstop, just to cover up the silence.

There was a lot of that, too.

It wasn't really silent, of course. There was screaming. There were sounds of chaos and destruction rampaging overhead, because we were usually hiding in a basement or other subterranean location. When we heard those sounds, we didn't talk. We huddled, and we shook, and we prayed. Prayed that we didn't die. That the human race would continue on.

We wondered if we were the only humans left in the world. Everyone we knew was gone. I think sometimes we were still in shock that we lived when they didn't. I knew Oz didn't want to be in a world without his Willow. Wes was hollowed out from losing Lilah, Fred, Faith, Gunn, Cordy. Angel.

I couldn't think about them. Not anymore. Whenever Xander or Giles crossed my mind I pushed them away. Angel was forbidden to enter my head.

It broke me when I thought about Dawn. I was just grateful Mom didn't live to see a world where her precious baby girl could be shredded, dismembered, torn limb from limb. When I remembered seeing that, feeling that devastated horror, I lost control yet again. I'd spend ten, fifteen minutes retching in the corner of whatever hovel we'd tucked ourselves into.

Wes and Oz never said a word, they just took turns stroking my hair-what was left of it, anyway-rubbing my back, wiping my face with whatever dirty cloth they could find. We ignored it. We made it all go away.

Because we couldn't make ourselves put another foot forward if we let ourselves understand there was nothing to run to.

We all knew, logically, that there was nothing out there. Nothing to save, nothing to hope for. But we were fighters. We didn't give in. We didn't die. We fought to live, to make things better, however we could.

Sometimes, you have to start from the inside.

That's probably how it started, the three of us. It wasn't on purpose. It wasn't like we set out to be the weirdest threesome ever. The three of us were all so different. None of it would have ever happened, Before. Me and Wes, or me and Oz, would have been unthinkable. Laughable. Oz was Willow's, and Wes… Wes was never an option. When I knew him the first time around I would have laughed until I made myself sick if anyone had suggested we'd ever be lovers.

Strange times make strange bedfellows, is all I can say.

It seemed so natural, then. The three of us together, huddled up in a corner, Oz's arms around my waist, Wes's chin on my shoulder. Taking what little comfort there was to take. We were all we had. I suppose it was inevitable that we'd turn to each other for that elemental need, the human craving for connection. Emotional, physical. We needed each other.

Sometimes it's hazy, who started what. I wonder, did I reach out for Wes first? Or did he touch me, draw me to him? At least I remember that it was Wes first, not Oz. But he watched. He never made a move to join in, but he observed me and Wes, with that placid, unreadable expression on his face.

It had been too much for me. I was thinking about Angel, and how much just being in his arms had made the world okay, no matter what. I was crying, sobbing, wishing the world would go away and let me stop hurting, and then I was in his arms. Not Angel's, of course, because Angel was nothing but a pile of ashes, probably in the Pacific by then, or maybe Denver or Boston. But it was Wes who was there, holding me.

That was normal. We'd easily fallen into the routine of simple touch. It was basic, just a way for us to connect, remind ourselves we were still human, still alive, still needing. Nothing more than that.

It was different that time.

Wes's arms were around me, holding me, stroking my back, and then it was like I panicked. I reached for him, pressed my lips to his, frantic to be That Buffy again. The one who could still love, give love. I needed something besides futility and grimness in my life. I needed passion.

Wes was there, so I'd take what I needed from him.

That first time it was desperate, animalistic. Rags resembling clothes were torn from each other, and then he was driving into me, brutally thrusting, bruising and tearing me until I cried, and then we both came violently. It was passion, but it was dark. It soothed a need, though. It was enough.

Afterward, he murmured to me, apologizing for his roughness, sprinkling kisses across my face, his beard scratching my skin, but not unpleasantly so. I think we both forgot about Oz until he moved to join us, stroking my hair tentatively, and I reached up and grabbed his hand and pulled it to my breast.

He was one of us. He couldn't be excluded, because we were all the three of us had. For Wes and I to "couple up," to push him to the outside, was unforgivable. No, he had to be a part of everything we did. All for one, and one for all, right?

It was awkward, at first. There was a mutual respect between Oz and Wes, but they weren’t comfortable expressing themselves sexually to the other. So they communicated through me. I was a convenient conduit.

That fell into a pattern, too. We were running, all the time. Night, day, it didn't matter. They often were indistinguishable. The only thing that mattered was escaping the Senior Partners, since the Powers had completely abandoned us. We were the last of the Champions, and they were determined to kill us all. So we ran whenever they got close. Whenever we heard the sounds of battle, of death, closing in on us, we picked up and fled.

We had little to do with our time, so we spent it together. We would have anyway, of course, but it was different now. We took what pleasure there was because it was the only thing we had left.

Wes, long and hard, burying himself in me. Sliding deep, filling me, promising me something better. Oz, gentle and patient, nuzzling my breasts, kissing his way from my navel to the crown of my head. The two of them staring at each other over my body, sharing me, sharing everything.

It got so that they were my reason for breathing. I kept going, long after I would have stumbled and fallen and begged for death, because they needed me as much as I needed them. There was an understanding that we'd never let the others down. We owed each other everything we had to give.

We'd gone through so much pain, so much loss, that we thought we were numb. The only time we ever felt was when we were lost in each other. I think we liked the numbness, though, in our own ways. It was hard to survive the pain.

I had no idea I had yet to face the worst of it.

I remembered that day, so crystal-clear in my mind. I hated that I could remember every detail of it so vividly. I wanted to shut it out, like I had the details of Dawn, of Angel, of Willow and Xander and Giles and everyone else I knew and loved. I couldn't, because it was imprinted on my brain.

We'd been running, like we always were. Running hard, running fast. Not looking where we were going, not looking back. Just running. We figured at that point we were somewhere in Tennessee, but it was impossible to know for sure. With the destruction we were surrounded by, there was no way of telling the cities apart.

We collapsed in yet another abandoned building, scurrying into the basement like mice, huddling in the corner and shaking, praying that we'd gotten away, just one more time. It was always just one more time.

Oz's arms came around me, his lips on my neck as I pressed my face against Wes's chest. His hands closed over my breasts, stroking them, kneading them, his fingers plucking at my nipples like he would have his guitar strings. My body began humming and I arched back, laying my head back on his shoulder, curving my face into his neck.

In the dim light that filtered through grimy windows, I could see Wes tug at the tattered shirt he wore. He stripped it from his chest, then lowered his hands to his jeans, unzipping them and sliding them off his legs. His cock was still soft, but I knew from experience it wouldn't take much to change that.

He placed his hands over Oz's, the two of them massaging my breasts while I moaned. Wes leaned in and kissed me, his tongue sliding between my lips and tangling around mine, his lips crushing mine, bruising them.

I could feel Oz's cock hardening against my lower back so I wiggled closer, grinding my ass against his crotch. He groaned, the sound whisper-soft against my ear. He slid his hands from my breasts, letting Wes take over while he worked to get his pants down and off.

I whimpered-couldn't cry out, they'd hear-as he pushed me forward. I landed on my knees, lowered my upper body so that I was on all fours, my hands pressed into the grit and grime of the basement floor. Oz stroked his cock as I twisted my head to look at him over my shoulder. He spread my legs, then pressed the tip of his cock to my pussy and plunged inside.

I moved my hips back, meeting each of his thrusts as his thighs smacked against mine. I looked into Wes's eyes as he watched us, sliding his fist up and down over his own cock, bringing it to full hardness. He sat on his shirt, his eyes closing momentarily with pleasure and then opening again.

He sensed that I was on the verge of orgasm, so he moved until he was right in front of me. I dropped my head, taking his cock into my mouth to muffle the sounds I made as my climax crashed over me, through me. His mouth tightened, his ass clenching as Oz's forceful pounding rocked my body, driving my face deeper between Wes' thighs.

Then Oz grunted and his cock erupted, filling me. I squirmed, clamping down around him and milking him as I bobbed my head up and down on Wes. When his body convulsed for the final time, he slid out of me and watched as I sucked Wes's cock.

Wes sat back, letting me lick him, stroke him. He hissed through clenched teeth when I shifted my position so that I could take his balls into my mouth while I moved my fist over his shaft.

He pulled back, smiling, a rare thing for us. He glanced over at Oz, who had rubbed his cock back into an erection. A silent communication passed between them before Oz nodded, then he laid down, on his back. Wes picked me up and settled me over Oz, my back to his face, and Oz slid his cock between my pussy lips. He massaged my clit with the head of his cock, coating himself in our combined wetness, and then pressed his cock into my ass, pushing past the tight ring of muscles with a soft pop.

Wes kissed me roughly, our tongues crashing together, to silence my sharp cry of pain. He pushed me so that my back was nearly pressed into Oz's chest, then placed my legs on the outside of Oz's, opening me up. He lowered his head, his tongue caressing my clit as two fingers slid inside me.

One of the amazing things about being a Slayer is it doesn't matter how many times you have sex, how big   
a cock you fuck, your muscles always tighten back up so that you're tight as a virgin. Wes's fingers inside me, stretching me, hurt nearly as good as Oz's cock in my ass.

Wes continued to circle my clit with his tongue, pumping his fingers, now joined by a third, inside my pussy, while Oz reached up to fondle my breasts, tugging on my nipples. I bucked my hips, wanting more, wanting Wes to make me come. 

He did.

A flood of sensations washed over me as his tongue roughly stroked my clit, and I lifted my hands to tangle in his too-long hair. When I could breathe normally again he knelt, his cock still rock-hard as he bumped it up against my overly sensitized clit. He used his fingers to pull my pussy lips apart, then moved, agonizingly slow, until his cock was partially buried between them.

I arched up, driving him deeper, my ass clenching around Oz, as the two began moving in tandem. Oz lifted his hips, his cock   
going deeper into my ass, while Wes thrust hard, burying his cock to the base. I could feel his pubic hair tickling my clit and shivered.

Beneath me, Oz began moving his hips in slow, tantalizing circles, his cock hitting sensitive spots inside my ass. Wes rocked against me, his cock sliding in deep before withdrawing almost completely. 

I had to lift my fist to my mouth, biting so hard that I drew blood, to keep from screaming in pleasure. They'd never fucked me simultaneously before; one fucked me while I went down on the other, but this was the first time they'd sandwiched me.

They built up a rhythm, both pistoning inside me, hard and fast and so rough I wanted to scream, first in pain then in pleasure, until I exploded so hard my vision went black. I trembled between them, Oz brutally fucking my ass, Wes slamming into my pussy, catapulting from one orgasm to another, until finally Oz came, his cock still pumping as he emptied himself into my ass.

I bore down hard, gripping Wes's cock with my pussy until he too lost himself, his cock spurting over and over until his body finally slowed and he collapsed, exhausted, on top of me.

And then the steel bar drove through his back, through his heart, and symbolically buried itself in my chest.

I screamed. I screamed, and screamed, and I was scrambling back, the bar ripping out of my body as I pushed Wes away from me, and the pain was blinding. I forgot Oz was underneath me, then behind me, as I leaped to my feet and stared into the face of a monster.

It was one of the Senior Partners' minions, something giant and black, covered in spikes and oozing a thick, oily goo. It had eyes so dark you couldn't see into them. And it held a steel bar that Wes's body was still impaled on.

Blood dripped from his mouth, his tired blue eyes wide in shocked death. I couldn't stand it. I thought I'd endured pain, but to have lost one of the only two people I had left in the world? It would have broken me if Oz's hand hadn't been on my back, steadying me.

We fought. Oz and I leapt into battle, spinning and kicking and punching and dodging oncoming blows. I broke two fingers when my fist plowed into the demon's face, but I ignored the pain and fought on. I cried as I grabbed the bar and yanked, feeling, hearing it slide through Wes's dead flesh, until I held it in front of me. Thickly coated with bright red blood.

I only got a small measure of satisfaction when I drove the bar through the demon's face. 

Then Oz was tugging on my arm, urging me to move. We only took enough time to throw on the rags we'd called clothes before hurrying away. I couldn't stop looking behind me as we ran, Oz holding my hand and pulling me along every time I paused. I couldn't stop looking at Wes. Broken, bleeding, dead. We couldn't even take the time to restore his dignity, put his clothes back on. We left him naked, his final resting place a cold, dirty basement floor.

That was the part I couldn't forgive myself for.

I condemned myself over and over again. If I hadn't been so wrapped up in myself, in my pleasure, I would have sensed the demon coming. That was what I was trained for, built for. I should have known it was there. I should never have given it a chance to surprise us. Because I failed, Wes was dead.

Oz was the only reason I stayed sane. I couldn't let go because I was all he had left. I couldn't abandon him.

So I held on, for months longer than I ever thought I could. I didn't give up, no matter how much I wanted to. It was just the two of us, and sometimes we wondered how the human race would survive.

Then I realized I was pregnant, and somehow, we knew we could do it.

Our flight had screwed my body up so badly that I had stopped paying attention to the things that didn't seem right. After all, nothing was ever right. The lack of a period, that was nothing new. The nausea was normal. The exhaustion, well, that was to be expected. It wasn't until I realized that my stomach was growing much larger than it should be, especially considering we never had enough to eat, that I knew.

Selfishly, I prayed the baby was Wes's. I needed him back. I needed to know I hadn't failed him entirely. It didn't surprise me that Oz felt the same way. 

We got lucky. Our "just one more time" mantra lasted the entire nine months. Maybe it was eight months. Or seven. I had no idea when I'd gotten pregnant, and there was no way of telling how far along I was when I figured it out. 

I survived, though. We both did. He helped me when it was too much, when I felt like I couldn't take another step, he was there to encourage me and tell me I could do it, for the baby's sake.

Then another demon found us, and my savior took a sword through the throat, protecting me as I delivered my baby.

My heart shattered when I watched Oz fall, his hand outstretched, his eyes begging me to forgive him for failing me. I sobbed, seeing his blood pour out on the floor as I gave one final push and my son was born.

I knew from the start I was a terrible mother, because I pushed the baby aside and stood up to fight the enemy. I was weak, in pain, and I took too many punches I should have been able to avoid. I wanted to give up, but my son cried from the box I'd put him and I stood up. Just one more time.

His need for me gave me the strength to grab the demon's head and twist, snapping its neck so that it fell to the floor. One less enemy to worry about.

I picked my son up, and the first thing I saw was Wes in his eyes. It was enough.

I wasn't.

The terrible truth came to me in the coming weeks. I couldn't provide for him. He needed more than I could give, more than there was to give. I couldn't feed him, couldn't clothe him, couldn't keep him healthy. Like I had his father, I'd failed him.

He was less than a month old when the day came that I looked down into my baby's beautiful, angelic face, too thin from hunger, and he gazed up at me. His eyes held no recriminations, only love. He took his last breath.

It broke me; I'd lost everyone. There was no reason to take the next step.

I stumbled.

And then I fell.


End file.
